If I Could Make These Moments Endless
Title: If I Could Make These Moments Endless
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: None of merit.
Summary: When she can’t sleep, there is Brittany.
A/N: Title from Josh Groban's "Awake."
There are nights that feel endless to a degree Santana can’t wrap her mind around. She stretches out on her fully-made bed, feeling the cushion of dark comforter under her spine, staring up at a ceiling dotted with posters and stick-on stars from a childhood long past, and waits. Waits, and watches the blue-flame numbers on her clock tick upward, and at no point does sleep stop circling around and around and finally settle. It dances and weaves, teasing pressure against her eyelids, the light surrender of her limbs as they sink into the mattress, and still it evades her. The hours of night slipstream into those belonging to morning, and all Santana can do is stare.
Her bedroom, usually a haven from pesky siblings and nagging mothers, becomes a cage. A trap for every unbidden thought and worrisome terror that manages to worm inside her mind. She loves her bedroom, cherishes the privacy of it, but on the nights insomnia comes to call, she wants nothing more than to slide through its bars and race into the cool air outside.
At sixteen, there is no reason to deny this call. Her parents couldn’t stop her, even if they cared enough to notice her slipping out the back door. She’s high school royalty, the kind of beautiful, venomous creature classmates are too nervous to so much as make eye contact with. She’s beyond parental discipline by now.
And besides, her father’s idea of discipline is a swift belt to the backside should her grades ever take a tumble. Which they never will. She knows better.
She moves through the October night, hands in the pockets of the dark jacket she’s tossed on over a ragged softball t-shirt and thick flannel pants. Her feet, jammed hastily into a pair of hole-worn Chucks, scuff along the sidewalk. Every now and again, a car rumbles past, its driver struggling to keep conscious in the throes of intoxication or sheer exhaustion. She watches them go, lip curled in a sneer, uninterested in the minor dramas of small town Ohio.
Her destination is three blocks north of her own home, a quick and steady jaunt she’s made more times than she could even bother to count. It’s easy to pick out the Pierce household-the gnarled oak in the front yard, the owl-patterned flag dangling off the front door, the rosebushes beneath the painted windowboxes-and just as mindless to scale the step-stool in the backyard and push Brittany’s window open. The warmth from the bedroom curls out to meet her, snaring in her lungs and doing brief battle with the chill that has already set into her bones. Unseasonably cold, for autumn, but that’s Lima; worse and worse with each passing year. As if she wasn’t already bursting with desperation to escape.
Brittany is in bed, of course, and fast asleep. Her tousled hair pokes out from beneath bright covers, the array of multi-hued pillows framing her body carefully, as though she can’t stand to be alone even in unconsciousness.
Santana’s feet touch springy carpet, and she cautiously draws the window back down again, adjusting the curtains so no one can see inside. She hates the way Brittany so carelessly leaves them ajar most nights, tempting every Noah Puckerman and Jacob Ben Israel out there to spy on her nightly activities. No one, Santana thinks with gritted teeth, deserves that privilege.
Well. Almost no one.
She toes off the weathered sneakers and socks and sets her jacket on Brittany’s desk chair. The room is lit only by a small lamp in the corner, turned on low for exactly this purpose. The first time Santana crept in, she managed to trip over Brittany’s beloved asshole of a cat, creating a domino effect that began with her lightly cared-for bookshelf and ended with a tiny hole in her wall. Brittany thought it was sort of funny, actually, to find Santana in a tangled, cursing mess on her floor at midnight; her parents were somewhat less amused. Thus, a dim nightlight to go along with the unlocked window.
Santana doesn’t need anyone to tell her how lucky she is that Brittany’s family is as wonderful as they are. Quinn’s father would have had her arrested in a heartbeat; Puck’s mother would have chased her out with a broomstick. Brittany’s parents only shook their heads, ruffled her hair, and made a quick trip to the hardware store.
The Pierce family is almost as spectacular as Brittany herself. Brittany, with her soft blankets and comfortable pillows, who began leaving Lord Tubbington outside at night, who, without a word, accepted Santana into her bed that first night and promptly drifted back to sleep.
She slides between the covers now, tossing a few pillows off the bed to make room. Brittany immediately shifts backwards, snuggling into the space where the warmth once was, and sighs as Santana’s arm wraps around her waist. Santana bites back a sigh of her own, eyes closing as her nose burrows into the tickle of Brittany’s long hair. There are no stars on the ceiling here; the posters are more charming, the colors light and airy. There are no proverbial bars on the window, no lock on the door, no warden of anxiety and expectation waiting outside. There is only Brittany and her duck-patterned pajama pants, the blue camisole riding up her firm stomach, warm feet tangling with Santana’s still-icy ones.
The fact that Brittany doesn’t wake, barely stirs beyond resting a hand upon Santana’s arm and smiling softly, is the best part of all of this. It doesn’t disturb Brittany in the least to have Santana here, creeping through her bedroom window four hours before they’re supposed to be in homeroom. It doesn’t frighten her to feel the familiar weight of a new body in her bed. It’s as if she needs this-expects it-just as much as Santana does, to the point where it has never occurred to her to question the offbeat routine.
Santana presses her mouth against the skin of Brittany’s neck, feels the soft rise and fall of breath under her hand as she slides it up Brittany’s belly and lets it rest there, just beneath her top. She shifts her free arm up under her pillow-it’s uncomfortable, the only uncomfortable thing; Santana has never quite figured out how to play big spoon without numbing one arm in the process-and closes her eyes. The night is long, and perhaps a little bit abusive, but when she’s in Brittany’s bed, it doesn’t seem so difficult to get through. In fact, in Brittany’s bed, she finds herself wishing the sun away, praying for morning to keep its distance so she can stay here longer.
Brittany’s body bows back into hers, fitting each curve and twist of her frame unconsciously. She wraps sleepy fingers around Santana’s wrist and pulls that arm up between her breasts, pressing a kiss to her hand. Santana holds back a shuddering sigh, shrugging the blankets higher around her shoulders and sinking into the mattress completely.
It's ironic that she believes morning comes too early on these nights, but that’s the greatest thing about Brittany: every night can be one of these, if Santana chooses. It’s entirely up to her; Brittany never pushes, and never will. She knows it takes time and desperation for Santana to find her way here, to clamber in and pull the covers up over both of them, begging for the world to stay out.
Every night can be one of these, but Santana doesn’t let that happen. Not every night. For now, it’s still special, still sacred, still a drug to be indulged only when deeply necessary. Because, like all drugs, there is always just as much room for harm as for help, should she take too much. It’s best to be careful. For now.
Arm tightening around Brittany, clutching her close as a child clutches its teddy, Santana allows herself to drift off. Across the room, nestled in the pocket of her dark jacket, the alarm on her phone ticks steadily towards daylight.
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: None of merit.
Summary: When she can’t sleep, there is Brittany.
A/N: Title from Josh Groban's "Awake."
There are nights that feel endless to a degree Santana can’t wrap her mind around. She stretches out on her fully-made bed, feeling the cushion of dark comforter under her spine, staring up at a ceiling dotted with posters and stick-on stars from a childhood long past, and waits. Waits, and watches the blue-flame numbers on her clock tick upward, and at no point does sleep stop circling around and around and finally settle. It dances and weaves, teasing pressure against her eyelids, the light surrender of her limbs as they sink into the mattress, and still it evades her. The hours of night slipstream into those belonging to morning, and all Santana can do is stare.
Her bedroom, usually a haven from pesky siblings and nagging mothers, becomes a cage. A trap for every unbidden thought and worrisome terror that manages to worm inside her mind. She loves her bedroom, cherishes the privacy of it, but on the nights insomnia comes to call, she wants nothing more than to slide through its bars and race into the cool air outside.
At sixteen, there is no reason to deny this call. Her parents couldn’t stop her, even if they cared enough to notice her slipping out the back door. She’s high school royalty, the kind of beautiful, venomous creature classmates are too nervous to so much as make eye contact with. She’s beyond parental discipline by now.
And besides, her father’s idea of discipline is a swift belt to the backside should her grades ever take a tumble. Which they never will. She knows better.
She moves through the October night, hands in the pockets of the dark jacket she’s tossed on over a ragged softball t-shirt and thick flannel pants. Her feet, jammed hastily into a pair of hole-worn Chucks, scuff along the sidewalk. Every now and again, a car rumbles past, its driver struggling to keep conscious in the throes of intoxication or sheer exhaustion. She watches them go, lip curled in a sneer, uninterested in the minor dramas of small town Ohio.
Her destination is three blocks north of her own home, a quick and steady jaunt she’s made more times than she could even bother to count. It’s easy to pick out the Pierce household-the gnarled oak in the front yard, the owl-patterned flag dangling off the front door, the rosebushes beneath the painted windowboxes-and just as mindless to scale the step-stool in the backyard and push Brittany’s window open. The warmth from the bedroom curls out to meet her, snaring in her lungs and doing brief battle with the chill that has already set into her bones. Unseasonably cold, for autumn, but that’s Lima; worse and worse with each passing year. As if she wasn’t already bursting with desperation to escape.
Brittany is in bed, of course, and fast asleep. Her tousled hair pokes out from beneath bright covers, the array of multi-hued pillows framing her body carefully, as though she can’t stand to be alone even in unconsciousness.
Santana’s feet touch springy carpet, and she cautiously draws the window back down again, adjusting the curtains so no one can see inside. She hates the way Brittany so carelessly leaves them ajar most nights, tempting every Noah Puckerman and Jacob Ben Israel out there to spy on her nightly activities. No one, Santana thinks with gritted teeth, deserves that privilege.
Well. Almost no one.
She toes off the weathered sneakers and socks and sets her jacket on Brittany’s desk chair. The room is lit only by a small lamp in the corner, turned on low for exactly this purpose. The first time Santana crept in, she managed to trip over Brittany’s beloved asshole of a cat, creating a domino effect that began with her lightly cared-for bookshelf and ended with a tiny hole in her wall. Brittany thought it was sort of funny, actually, to find Santana in a tangled, cursing mess on her floor at midnight; her parents were somewhat less amused. Thus, a dim nightlight to go along with the unlocked window.
Santana doesn’t need anyone to tell her how lucky she is that Brittany’s family is as wonderful as they are. Quinn’s father would have had her arrested in a heartbeat; Puck’s mother would have chased her out with a broomstick. Brittany’s parents only shook their heads, ruffled her hair, and made a quick trip to the hardware store.
The Pierce family is almost as spectacular as Brittany herself. Brittany, with her soft blankets and comfortable pillows, who began leaving Lord Tubbington outside at night, who, without a word, accepted Santana into her bed that first night and promptly drifted back to sleep.
She slides between the covers now, tossing a few pillows off the bed to make room. Brittany immediately shifts backwards, snuggling into the space where the warmth once was, and sighs as Santana’s arm wraps around her waist. Santana bites back a sigh of her own, eyes closing as her nose burrows into the tickle of Brittany’s long hair. There are no stars on the ceiling here; the posters are more charming, the colors light and airy. There are no proverbial bars on the window, no lock on the door, no warden of anxiety and expectation waiting outside. There is only Brittany and her duck-patterned pajama pants, the blue camisole riding up her firm stomach, warm feet tangling with Santana’s still-icy ones.
The fact that Brittany doesn’t wake, barely stirs beyond resting a hand upon Santana’s arm and smiling softly, is the best part of all of this. It doesn’t disturb Brittany in the least to have Santana here, creeping through her bedroom window four hours before they’re supposed to be in homeroom. It doesn’t frighten her to feel the familiar weight of a new body in her bed. It’s as if she needs this-expects it-just as much as Santana does, to the point where it has never occurred to her to question the offbeat routine.
Santana presses her mouth against the skin of Brittany’s neck, feels the soft rise and fall of breath under her hand as she slides it up Brittany’s belly and lets it rest there, just beneath her top. She shifts her free arm up under her pillow-it’s uncomfortable, the only uncomfortable thing; Santana has never quite figured out how to play big spoon without numbing one arm in the process-and closes her eyes. The night is long, and perhaps a little bit abusive, but when she’s in Brittany’s bed, it doesn’t seem so difficult to get through. In fact, in Brittany’s bed, she finds herself wishing the sun away, praying for morning to keep its distance so she can stay here longer.
Brittany’s body bows back into hers, fitting each curve and twist of her frame unconsciously. She wraps sleepy fingers around Santana’s wrist and pulls that arm up between her breasts, pressing a kiss to her hand. Santana holds back a shuddering sigh, shrugging the blankets higher around her shoulders and sinking into the mattress completely.
It's ironic that she believes morning comes too early on these nights, but that’s the greatest thing about Brittany: every night can be one of these, if Santana chooses. It’s entirely up to her; Brittany never pushes, and never will. She knows it takes time and desperation for Santana to find her way here, to clamber in and pull the covers up over both of them, begging for the world to stay out.
Every night can be one of these, but Santana doesn’t let that happen. Not every night. For now, it’s still special, still sacred, still a drug to be indulged only when deeply necessary. Because, like all drugs, there is always just as much room for harm as for help, should she take too much. It’s best to be careful. For now.
Arm tightening around Brittany, clutching her close as a child clutches its teddy, Santana allows herself to drift off. Across the room, nestled in the pocket of her dark jacket, the alarm on her phone ticks steadily towards daylight.